In part 1 I made quite a strong case against the sending of Valentine’s Day cards. If my unbiased reasoning didn’t persuade you, you’re a lost cause anyway, but I will nonetheless take the liberty of pointing out that the generic Valentine’s Day cards are killing trees. Are you absolutely sure that you will be able to live with yourselves if you realize that you are responsible for the Valentine’s Day Tree Massacre? Now, I would hate to influence you in any way; however, you’re invited to think extensively about your carbon footprint.

Now that I have provided you with a sound excuse for forgetting to send a card (- My pleasure), let us go back to a time when men didn’t have to buy chocolate or flowers and women pretended to be OK with that. So, many years ago, in a place that we now call Rome, there was a festival called Lupercalia.

As far as I can remember, February has always been associated with emotional and bodily cleansing (even in ancient Rome). Lupercalia happened to be one of the most important festivals of the period. Symbolically, it was similar to modern Lent, but since this was pre-Christian era we describe these customs as savage and uncouth. Priests and ordinary folk gathered at the place where the power duo Romulus and Remus were said to have been found by their adoptive mother the she-wolf (btw, “lupus” is Latin for “wolf”, therefore Lupercalia …). Animal sacrifice was an essential part of this event. The unlucky mammal chosen for the job was either a goat or a dog (whichever was easier to come by in those days). After the nasty part was over, they used the blood to smear the foreheads of the desirable men (you’ll soon see why). The other distinguishing feature was full frontal nudity. Let me elaborate.

Dashing young Romans with eye-popping abdominals had to take off all of their clothes in order to move freely around the gathered congregation. You know how clothes like to get in the way of running around and gallivanting … However, before the athletic section of the evening began, the young gentlemen had to fortify themselves by eating and drinking to their heart’s content (and their stomach’s capacity). Then, unhindered by their under-garments, they each grabbed a strip of goat skin (they couldn’t let it go to waste, could they?) and hit married women with it.

Yes ladies, I realize that this sounds like a textbook example of domestic violence, but let me assure you that it was not so. In those long-forgotten days, women were willing to expose themselves to a slight whipping on the back every once in a while. On February 15 of each calendar year, women received a ceremonial lashing in order to ensure their fertility. You get the picture: man hits woman with a phallic-shaped object, woman starts to bleed and nine months later she is in the throes of childbirth. It represented “symbolic penetration” because men were not stupid enough to actually allow the vigorous youth to perform the marital duties for them. Just think of it as the old-fashioned equivalent of the pharmaceutical industry.

A fun fact. It seems that not every young man could become one of the venerable Luperci. The priest eliminated from the pageant all bearded men. It seems that the individuals in question were found irresistible because of it. How times have changed! Today men are discouraged from growing facial hear and I think it’s for the best. We shave, you shave. That’s the deal.

Well, so much for the Romans. Now, as the suck-face fest of 2013 is rapidly approaching, I only have some last-minute words of wisdom to impart to all love birds. Those of you who still haven’t found the perfect gift don’t panic (it’s bad for the heart) and for heaven’s sake don’t go buying some silly thing like a 12 pound teddy bear. It might have been cute when you were seven, but anyone above the mental age of 12 should possess sufficient amount of good sense to avoid the toy-section of department stores (on Valentine’s day).

One last thing, last year I remember not getting any flowers or chocolate delivered to my home. It almost made me think that this was intentional. I’m certain there had to have been a mix-up at the post office. Fortunately, I’m not a person to give up and throw in the towel at the first difficulty. Therefore, I’ve decided that this year all persons wishing to prove their burning passion for me (I know you’re out there), can do it in a very organized way. Just follow the instructions at the bottom of the page. Remember, absolutely anyone can join this terrific cause.

Goodnight and Happy Valentine’s Day. May Love be ever in your favour.

Instructions:

Ground rules:

1. Will not except the following: flowers (too cheesy), chocolate (the exam period has not been particularly kind to my figure).

2. Cards are out of the question – didn’t you read the post?!

3. However, I might give my heart away for a good book. For further information you can contact me via telepathy.

4. Personal dedication: Selma G. you’re a dear and I love you to bits. Here’s to friendship!

In the year of our lord one thousand nine hundred eighty-seven, the blogger’s father and six of his cronies (otherwise known as the magnificent seven) founded a club. It was a prestigious village club for gentlemen. They called themselves NOT the “Merry Men of the Lower Wet Field”, which not only sounds wonderfully picturesque, but also has the redeeming quality of being the authoress’s own suggestion. Unfortunately, this was before her time, so the local “sires” couldn’t profit from her wise advice. Instead, they decided upon MMC, which is short for The Marriage Martyr Club (and sounds faintly misogynic).

The main purpose of this club was to enjoy hiking in good company. Although my private opinion is that men sought an excuse to go blow off steam for a couple of days and possibly to explore the contents of the regional wine cellars. Who is to tell? Primarily, this society was reserved for married individuals of the masculine gender – how utterly unexpected. However, since my father hadn’t yet met the women of his dreams (my charming mother), he as one of the Founding Fathers added a clause that all unmarried men above the age of 27 were also permitted to join the club. As chance would have it, my illustrious father was 27 at the time (a funny coincidence that has earned him many a chaffing throughout the years).

Of course, even the lucky individuals that meet the two requirements, have to go through a long selective process. As my sources tell me, one must hand in a written application complete with signatures of any two current members who consequently become the youngster’s mentors. The time of apprenticeship lasts for a year and after the appointed time, the apprentice needs only to successfully undergo the initiation ceremony (also known as the Martyr Fest) and he is in.

These proceedings are conducted under the strict auspices of secrecy. However, your brave reporter eyeballed one of the members for a long while, became his confidante and managed to bring you this exclusive information. My source who wishes to remain anonymous says that to pass the test, the apprentice must devour the so called “Martyr’s Tidbit”, which I suppose has some vague reference to the Last Supper. In any case, the scrumptious meal consists of a loaf of bread and a huge kielbasa (a delicacy in our part of the world), which he washes down with two pints of regional wine. If the candidate complies with the rules satisfactorily, he is given a new name and becomes a true-blue martyr. However, if the candidate should fail, he becomes the joke of the community and must leave the country. I’m kidding, he just has to go through one more year of apprenticeship.

Now, as I have mentioned, each member is given quite a specific sobriquet. The names are indeed somewhat peculiar and make one think of the deranged progeny of Santa’s beloved reindeers. Here are the monikers of some the pinnacles of the community: the Fat One, the Old One, Digger, Hurdler, John the Baptist, Amigo and The Grand K, just to give you a flavour. The members enjoy a high reputation in the county. One of its members is the former principle of our primary school (I know!).

The club wouldn’t be complete without its elders – the highest authority in the club. Each year the council members elect a new leader (so that he wouldn’t get drunk with power). He’s called the big Kahuna. Besides giving justice to their wives’s cuisines, the members regularly engage in recreational events. In their younger years, they went hiking pretty regularly, but these days many of them have started manifesting signs of rheumatism, so they go skiing to Austria instead (because they can reach the summit with cable cars).

The members in their “traditional dress”.

As it is a real club, its members must perform their duties regularly. For example, if a certain member is unable to climb Triglav (our highest mountain) or some other two-thousander, his membership is suspended automatically. Also, each member must regularly attend council meetings, otherwise he will pay fines.

One of the events the club organizes is the traditional carol singing on the Eve of the Epiphany. Since the author was able to personally “participate” in this event, she will take a dab at trying to describe it. The throng, meaning its 19 actual members, came to our doorstep dressed in their ceremonial attire – suspenders (not the cool ones they wear in Mad Men though), woollen socks, a red hat and what I can only assume is a shirt from the Urkel foundation. Then they sang the five stanzas of a song written for them by a celebrated poet from our parts (you might want to take the word “celebrated” with a pinch of salt). The last stanza goes like this:

The original Slovene version (in dialect):

Zdaj pa prosۥmo za en majhen dar,

kruha, vinca, alۥ pa denar,

če pa ne boste nič dar ۥvalۥ,

vam bomo pa dekleta (gospodarja) ukralۥ.

My stab at a translation :

Now we for a trifle pray,

Bread, a glass of wine or some pay

If thou givest nothing,

The (blushing) maiden we’ll take without bluffing.

The blushing maiden was my cue to get outside with a tray of bilberry brandy. When I performed my duties of a hostess (I could have given Martha Stewart a run for her money), I stood aside to watch one of the members write the initials of the three Magi above the door frame : G+M+B (standing for Gaspar, Matthew and Balthasar respectively). Then everyone gave me a hearty handshake and wished me a happy new year. I find that awfully sweet. I think that in the future, I shall force people to be nice to me more.

What about you? Do you also want to become one of the Marriage Martyrs when you grow up? Even if you are absent in body, you can celebrate with the merry brotherhood in spirit on March 10, the “international” Martyr’s Day. Apparently, it was on that day many moons ago that 40 soldiers died for their religious beliefs. In honour of that, the number of members must never exceed 40, otherwise they will suffer the same fate. I say risk it.